The second week at Meisei Magic Academy arrived with a new kind of clamor. Paper lanterns, half-painted banners, and stacks of brightly colored wood suddenly appeared in the hallways. The air, already thick with its usual subtle hum, now vibrated with an excited buzz. Conversations were louder, faster, peppered with words like 'festival,' 'stalls,' and 'class project.' For everyone else, it seemed to promise fun. For me, it was another layer of noise, another intricate social dance I didn't know the steps to.
My attempts at connection had dwindled to almost nothing. The brief, hopeful smiles I'd offered in the first few days were now reserved for teachers. It was easier to keep my head down, to retreat into the perceived safety of my own silence. My notebook had become less a bridge and more a shield, something to hide behind when the gazes of others felt too heavy.
Emi, the girl with the orange pigtails, and her shadow, Rika, seemed to have appointed themselves my personal tormentors. Their whispers were no longer confined to the spaces behind their hands; they were louder now, sharp little darts aimed in my direction. "Look, the mute is writing another novel," Emi would say, just loud enough for those around her to hear, as I scribbled notes during Ms. Sato's lecture on thaumaturgic resonance. Rika would offer a dry, knowing laugh. Each comment chipped away at the fragile composure I tried so hard to maintain.
The incident I'd been dreading, the one my anxiety had played on a loop in the quiet hours of the night, happened during a literature class. We were supposed to be discussing the symbolism in a classic poem. Our teacher, Mr. Tanaka, a stern man with a surprisingly gentle way of explaining complex metaphors, had asked us to write down our interpretations.
I was absorbed, my pencil flying across the page, trying to capture the fleeting images the poem evoked – the loneliness of a single star, the vastness of an empty sea. These were feelings I understood. For a few precious moments, I forgot where I was, forgot the eyes that might be watching.
A shadow fell over my desk. I looked up, startled, into Emi's smirking face. Before I could react, her hand darted out and snatched my notebook.
"What masterpiece are you working on today, Fujiwara?" she drawled, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Rika snickered beside her.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. My breath caught in my throat. My hands flew up in a gesture of pleading – No, please, give it back.
Emi held the notebook just out of my reach, flipping through the pages with exaggerated interest. "Oh, look, Rika! It's full of her little scribbles. What's this one? A drawing of… is that Haru?" Her voice rose on the last word, laced with a malicious glee.
My face burned with a heat so intense I thought I might actually ignite. She'd found the sketch. The private, foolish sketch I'd made. Humiliation, raw and overwhelming, washed over me. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I reached for the notebook, but Emi easily sidestepped me, her laughter echoing in the sudden hush of the classroom. Everyone was watching.
"'The loneliness of a single star…'" Emi read aloud from one of my notes, her voice mocking the poetic words. "'The vastness of an empty sea…' How profound, Transfer."
Tears pricked at my eyes, hot and shameful. I blinked them back fiercely. Don't cry. Don't let them see. I stood frozen, my hands clenched at my sides, every muscle in my body screaming for me to run, to disappear.
Mr. Tanaka's sharp voice cut through the tension. "Emi! What is the meaning of this? Return Ms. Fujiwara's property immediately!"
Emi's smirk faltered slightly. With a dramatic sigh, she tossed the notebook back onto my desk. It landed with a clatter, pages splayed open, my private thoughts exposed. "Just trying to help her participate, Sir," she said, batting her eyelashes. Rika stifled another giggle.
Mr. Tanaka gave them a withering glare before turning his attention back to the lesson, but the atmosphere in the room had shifted. It was thick with my shame. I couldn't look at anyone. I slowly closed the notebook, my fingers trembling. The words on the page, once a source of comfort, now felt tainted, violated.
My eyes instinctively darted towards Haru's desk. He was looking straight ahead, his expression unreadable, as if nothing had happened. Had he seen? Had he heard Emi's taunts about the sketch? The thought sent a fresh wave of mortification through me. His apparent indifference felt like a separate, sharper pain. Of course, he wouldn't care. Why would he? I'm just… me.
For the rest of the day, I moved in a daze. The vibrant festival preparations seemed to mock my internal desolation. Cheerful voices discussing banner designs and food stall ideas felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves. During the lunch break, I couldn't bring myself to eat. I found my quiet spot in the garden, the one with the strangely vibrant moss, and just sat, letting the misery wash over me.
The moss pulsed faintly with color when I wasn't looking directly at it, a soft emerald glow that seemed to breathe. Or perhaps it was just my tear-blurred vision. I touched a patch tentatively; it felt cool and slightly springy, like a tiny, living cushion. Even the moss is more alive than I am right now, I thought, a wave of self-pity so strong it almost made me gasp.
A faint shimmer in the air caught my attention, near a cluster of old stone lanterns at the edge of the garden. It was like heat haze, but the air was cool. As I watched, the shimmering coalesced for a bare second into something vaguely wing-shaped before dissolving. My heart gave a little jump. Was this the 'magic' people whispered about? These fleeting, almost invisible things? Or was my distress making me see things that weren't there? It was beautiful, and terrifying, and I had no one to ask if it was real.
Walking home, the weight of the stolen words in my notebook felt heavier than ever. Emi hadn't just taken my notes; she'd taken a piece of my fragile peace, my ability to find solace in my own thoughts.
As I passed the school gates, I saw Haru up ahead, walking alone. He wasn't looking back. I wondered again what he'd thought, if he'd thought anything at all. Probably not. I was just the quiet, deaf girl whose notebook got snatched. An insignificant, embarrassing blip in his day.
The sketch of him was still in there, a few pages in from the poem Emi had mocked. I thought about tearing it out, ripping it into tiny pieces. But I didn't. It was a reminder, a painful one, of a fleeting moment of observation, a tiny, secret hope that had been carelessly trampled. And for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to destroy it. Not yet.